Zion
by caffienerain
Summary: Zion symbolizes a longing, by wandering peoples, for a safe homeland. For others, it has taken on a more spiritual meaning—a safe spiritual homeland, like in heaven, or a kind or peace of mind in one's present life.
1. The First Saturday

**A/N: I do not own any of the people mentioned. They are crazy. Nor do I own the actual club. I wouldn't want to!**

_The longing for Zion of the Babylonian Hebrews was adopted as a metaphor by Christianized Black slaves. Thus, Zion symbolizes a longing, by wandering peoples, for a safe homeland. For others, it has taken on a more spiritual meaning—a safe spiritual homeland, like in heaven, or a kind or peace of mind in one's present life._

**Saturday**

They had already began to congregate. Ample, young bodies merging one with another to the pulsating music. Lusty friction in a darkened room. The cadence, the pulse, the bass, the sultry rocking of these bodies was utterly intoxicating. The heat from the warehouse floor, rising almost as steam warmed the room. Swaying, dizzying beats filled the air with erotic meaning. There was blood in the air tonight.

Justin watched this scene with the utmost confidence that he would see her here tonight. This sort of encounter drew her kind, crazy lunatic, mellow kind. The wait was almost too much to bear, it was like a caffeine headache in ways, silent and creeping. Worth the wait to see these people disappear, couple by couple. Some predators, some allies, some friend, foe, yet all in this enchanting little game of his.

Round and round they would dance, most unaware of the present lurking danger. Some understood this air of warning, just enough to know that something was wrong. Something, but usually it was ignored as they inebriated themselves, slowly poisoning, hand in hand with death.

Now and then a cloud of smoke would dissipate enough for a nicotine and marijuana cloud to linger overhead. Periodically, the heavy warehouse door would open, the cold night air inviting as ever, and it would unveil a few mysterious uncertain guests, lacking in the intelligence department for the most part, unaware of exactly who or what brought them there. Not to mention what they were to do when they did get inside. By and by the music would take them over, and they would begin the ritualistic dance.

Justin had focused his attention away from the door, watching the trance-like movement. Rhythms of the body matched rhythms of the music booming from the speakers. With an air of gusto, the warehouse door swung open. A simply dressed young woman entered, her hips already swaying to the music. She was surrounded by a few lucky gentlemen. She walked gracefully, circling the crowd, sometimes mustering a smile of approval.

This was her. The pulse of the music seemed to deepen with her every step. Echoed appreciation rippled through the crowd, and occasionally, she would turn to purr something into one of her follower's ear, heeding a nod of approval. She was beautiful, with her long black hair softly curling to her mid back. Her hair set off the glow of her pale skin, and lightened her blue eyes. She was admired by everyone that had been dancing, and although everyone had stopped, the music continued on.

And that's when she saw Justin, his mouth slightly open, taking all of her in. Every curve, freckle, and perfect imperfection was memorized. He could tell you why he came to Zion every night. It was her.

Christina gave a slight nod in Justin's direction, gliding almost seamlessly toward him, until she was there, standing in front of him. She was shorter, he'd observed now, almost daring to reach out to see if she was real. The guys that had been with her disappeared like a fine mist, into the crowd. The music raged on, and everyone was dancing again in hushed silence. The queen was in the room.

And then she spoke, and it was like Justin completely understood what Shakespeare had meant when he said 'speak again, bright angel.' Her voice was as smooth as honey, rough as thunder, bright as lightning, and all she had said was, "Dance?"

Swallowing any words he had, Justin nodded. It was the only response he could give. Then, her body was pressed against his, and the rest of the night blurred.

That was the thing about Zion. No true questions, no talking, and only certain people had certain privileges. Only a select few knew the truth and the true horror of Zion. Justin, she would soon find out, was one of those people.

He'd never noticed the interior of the place. It was dark, and that was all that mattered. Four dark walls enclosed throbbing rhythms. Why he'd noticed that now was beyond him. He had no idea why he wasn't paying Christina the attention - and respect - she most definitely deserved. And she'd noticed, leaning forward to press her body tightly against his, she whispered into his ear, breath cool against the sweat on his neck. "Most people would kill to have this opportunity."

"I'm not most people," He replied back, whispering into her jaw as his fingers worked magic on the small of her back. Her body was throbbing, and he was throbbing, and it was good.

He was a good guy, Justin. He'd come from a pretty bad off family, but he knew the rules. Speak only when spoken to, arrive at the warehouse early for deployment to work, shy away from the daylight whenever his job allowed it. But he was in pretty deep. Weekends, it was Zion. That was all he knew; dancing, fighting, fucking, anything that kept his mind off of who he was, where he came from, and the apparent black hole he was becoming. They didn't call him Justin, nor did they call her Christina. Justin had lost his name early on when he was going on eighteen.

It was a street fight, winner take all. From then on, he was known as Angel, for his beaten-cherub face. Angel, J, or 'Stop that kid!' were some of the names he was known as. Why was he thinking of that while dancing with her? He felt like he could lose his mind at the flashbacks of everything. It was naked and pure but utterly obsolete. None of it had any structure, and the seemingly endless mindfuck wasn't something to relish. At all.

Then the seamless transition of music, and she was gone, replaced with an air that was still charged with her presence. He was charged with electric static, white noise. Ignoring his surroundings and pushing throw the crowd, he found his supplier, C.

"The fuck you give me?" Justin's harsh words fell to deaf ears as he stared the man down.

C came from a well-off family, but he pushed, and that was how he kept mouths fed. He had a family, a wife that was more understanding than most, and two beautiful little girls. Most of the people at Zion didn't know this about the drug dealer, or if they did, they just didn't care.

"The fuck'd you give me?" Justin demanded again, his bruised and scarred arm moving quickly so the calloused hand was on C's thin throat.

C just laughed. He had the nerve to laugh. "Angel, baby, calm down. Unless you're doing old shit, I haven't given you anything tonight." His voice was smooth and uncaring. Freeing Justin's now loosened hand from his own throat, he smiled. "But darling, I have this." He pulled out a thin sheet of acid. "Have you reeling for days. Or baby, I've got your usual. Your sticky-sweet nose candy. It's your choice."

Justin let his hand drift down with thoughts of knocking C out disappearing from his mind. He had a pocket full of cash, sticky and wet bills held together with a rubber band. The same rubber band that he often used to tie off before shooting some illicit drug into his veins.

Suddenly, being sober wasn't looking so good. He'd blown any chance he'd had with Christina, and the night was young. There were dances to dance, drugs to do, fights to cause, people to fuck. The never-ending cycle of Zion, where people never slept and the music never died, but when the sun came up, everything was lost.


	2. Sunday

**A/N: I do not own any of the people mentioned. They are crazy. Nor do I own the actual club. I wouldn't want to!**

Sunday

The darkness that was Sunday was upon everyone, and Justin swayed in his stance. Inside his hollow apartment he stood, punching a bag of sand, training. Sunday was useless; no work, no Zion. Some federal law prohibited working on Sundays, to piss on the poor. You could find work if you looked, but there were the severe consequences of it. He usually trained or worked out, anything he could to alter his thoughts.

In the midst of his training, the Connect rang out a shrill noise while a light above the door blinked steadily. And staring at the computer system on the wall, he knew who it was. It was A, coming back to grovel, even though she'd nonchalantly ask if she could train with him.

She leaned on the door frame and watched Justin after he had slowly opened the door. Her hair, like her nickname, was blue; she had the eyes to match. "Can I have a go?" Her voice was much raspier, but still as sexy as Christina's.

He nodded as he stepped back, moving toward a bench while he wiped his busted lip with the back of his hand. He had busted his lip open last week, during one of the street fights he had won. Yet, he had taken a pretty significant beating.

"Thanks," she replied, pulling her short hair into a ponytail as she walked by him. She knew his eyes were on her body, they always were. Her hands were already wrapped, and she took on the bag, her way of begging for his attention.

Justin's blue eyes watched her body with a significant thought of awe. He was useless when her body twisted and turned, her whole body shaking with the shock when she hit the sand bag. Blue hair spilled messily out of the ponytail, and sweat poured down her back leaving little trails of moisture visible on her skin. He also noticed the muscles in her arms as they flexed, the way that her white tank top set off the tan of her skin, and how her baggy camouflage jeans sat on her hips just so, and it was over.

Justin pushed himself off the bench, quickly striding across the small room of the apartment, and forced her - chest first - into the punching bag, pinning her there. He had one hand beside her head, gripping the cloth material awkwardly as the other snaked down her sweat drenched stomach. She almost purred her delight, grinding her hips backward against his. Justin groaned softly, his breath hot in her ear, as the other hand found the waistband of her pants. A's body was on edge as he let go of the punching bag and took hold of her hair, then pulled.

On her neck were the white lines of scars, places where her body had been stitched back together, places that Justin traced with his tongue and teeth. His fingers slipped further, finding her hot, wet, and ready for him. That power he had, the power to make her melt, to make her come for him, that was the whole of it. That's why he did it. That's why he found his two fingers pushing inside of her forcefully, making her cry out; half in pleasure, half in pain. Her own hands were occupied, one twisting a pierced nipple through her shirt - his shirt - and the other wanting and straining to touch him, to brush against how hard he was. How hard _she_ had made him.

Justin twisted his hand in her hair, pulling tight as she bit on her bottom lip, the metallic hum of blood barely tasted. He pushed his fingers deeper, harder, teeth on her neck, a mixture so lethal she thought she might combust. But they were playing by Justin's rules, and they were always in play - speak only when spoken to, so her voice never rose, never sounded how much she needed him. And all it took were those three simple words, growled low into her ear, barely audible but oh-so-loud. "What's my name?"

She was gone. Before even answering, she moaned, the blood on her lips evident. And Justin stopped moving his fingers, sliding them out teasingly. He offered them to his own willing lips while she panted, still leaning against the punching bag. Loosening his hold, she slid to the ground, grinding her body against his every inch that she could. His body was tense aching for release she would happily give. Her fingers slid the zipper of his pants down, peeling the button apart.

The hurried movement of fabric hitting the floor filled the bare apartment accompanied by noises from the street below and people above who were participating in the same activity. Justin lost concentration when she wrapped her lips around him, soft wet pressure pulsated through his body, seeping into his aching core. He could feel the vibrations of her mouth all the way into his curled toes as he wrapped his hand in her hair yet again, emitting a low primal growl as she wrapped her hands around the base of this whole encounter. Holding back his frantic thrusts as he thought he might give at any moment, he realized he was not a person to be fucked with.

Justin yanked her hair, almost sending her across the room, but not quite, just enough for her to pull back and blink her wide blue eyes.

"Off," he commanded, stripping himself of the offending jeans around his ankles, and the boxers someone had bought him. His bare feet slapped on the hard wood floor as he came closer and closer to her wriggling body. Any means necessary she would throw herself at his feet.

And there she was, this naked sight to behold, on her knees begging for him. To him. Justin traced lines on her body, a zig-zag scar on he left thigh, a skin patterned with tattoos, her lips cut just as his were, parted, barely daring to breathe.

He was on her, pushing her backward as a knee parted hers, and he sank himself deep into her, her scream muffled into the back of her arm as her hips willingly moved against his abrasively, muscles tight for him already but not one to skip the foreplay. Everything was animalistic, the way he was so aggressive, pushing, pulling, teasing, biting, and holding her arms above her head as she moaned. It sure as hell beat masturbation.

He pinned her there, his free hand drifting down to run along her body, tracing the less than invisible scars on her thighs. Every once in a while he would rub small fragile circles around her clit, careful of the jewelry there. His middle finger often brushed the silver, causing an immediate shiver to rake her body. Her breath would quicken, and all the sudden stop, her mouth open, but no noise would come out until he murmured something that was supposed to sound comforting into her ear.

"Deeper, harder," A would pant to his cocky attitude, pushing him away with her hands, but pulling him in farther with her hips. When he didn't oblige, she whimpered. "Please?"

There was only so much of her begging he could take. It was one thing for her to come over and do what she did, decoyed with "training," but it was another thing for her to lay below him, panting and whimpering. It triggered something inside Justin, something so dark and instinctive, he could feel it deep inside his stomach. It boiled, right under his flesh, almost burning him as he gripped her hips, digging his fingers into her dark skin. Her eyes clamped shut, and her faced distorted in the slightest pain. Her mouth opened in a silent scream.

A lyric by the Beatles, one from Justin's favorite song, ran through his head. "Living is easy with your eyes closed;" and "nothing is real," two very strong lyrics in this day and age. And when he thought that, Christina came to his mind, and he was gone. With one final thrust of his hips, he came, hot and sticky; not even caring to pull out. Her muscles tensed, taking every bit of him that she could, meeting his release with her own, fingers digging into his chest. He drew in a breath, letting himself relax as he pulled out of her body. She moaned slightly; her eyes were still closed, and her body was limp.

Justin could feel the fatigue begin to set in, settle deep within his bones, on top of the fatigue he had already felt from Zion the night before. They laid there for a few more minutes before A began to stir.

"Justin, I---"

"Shut up and get the fuck out."


End file.
